there is a light that never goes out
by rinabeans
Summary: 'You're anything but good.' UtRH!Verse. Warnings for suicide and blood.


**warnings:** suicide, blood  
**rated:** T  
**pairings:** n/a  
**characters:** Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne  
**word count:** 959  
**summary:** You're anything but good.

* * *

**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own _Batman,_ the animated movie_ Batman: Under the Red Hood_ or the song,_ "There is a Light That Never Goes out". _The Smiths own the song._

* * *

_(I never never want to go home_

_Because I haven't got one_

_Anymore)_

* * *

Heart beating fast. Hands sweaty. Something pounding against his head. Blood.

Blood… Trickling down the corners of his mouth, overlapping against the crusty, flaky trail that had already dripped down his neck, all the way past his collarbone, staining his white undershirt. He clutched his bleeding hand to his chest, and winced when he bent his wrist. Everything was bleary. Unshed tears clouded his vision as he trotted down the darkened alleyway.

All he heard was the uneven beating of his heart, and the sound of _his_ voice, echoing within the depths of his mind. He grit his teeth in aggravation, annoyed that he couldn't get that asshole's words out of his mind.

_'Let me help you.'_

He let out a raspy, wry laugh. "Too late."

He coughed. Blood splattered onto the wet concrete and the dirtied white walls of the building next to him. His knees buckled and he started to cough harder until he was panting and gasping for air. His free hand gripped his wrist and held it tighter against his chest. The domino mask was peeling off, the spirit gum wearing off as his sweat and tears mingled with it. It felt tacky, uncomfortable against his skin, so Jason angrily discarded the thin black and white mask from his face and threw it into the dumpster next to him.

He wiped his chin with his hand. His eyes remained locked onto the deep crimson quickly drying over his pale, calloused fingers.

_'You're anything but good.'_

He wondered why nobody loved him. No one cared. He was the black sheep of the family, the cautionary tale. He wasn't anyone's son. He was just a soldier. Easily replaced and forgotten. Never a son.

Tears crawled down his bruised and dirty cheeks.

Why doesn't he love him?

_'I can't. I'm sorry.'_

—-

The next day Bruce drives to one of Jason's headquarters in a beat-up old car. This wasn't the rich, suburban side of Gotham, so he had to make himself fit in. He's dressed in a long, dark overcoat with matching sunglasses. He tucks his hat down further so that his face is almost completely concealed, hidden away from the sunlight beaming down at him.

He makes a fast trek to the abandoned looking warehouse behind two dilapidated buildings. It was windowless, and the entryway is littered with all kinds of trash. Empty cans of Zesti, newspapers (all the headlines are about Batman, he notices), and a number of old cigarette butts. They were almost burnt all the way except for one. It was lighted, but it looks like the person who did it decided that he didn't want a cigarette at the last minute.

Bruce listens for anyone that could be around, but it is almost too quiet. He takes out a pick lock from one of the pockets hidden inside his coat. He unlocks the door with ease. Before he came, he asked Oracle to look into the warehouse to see if there were any security systems in place, but there were none. His mouth curled downward at how careless his son was.

As he walks in, he looks around. There were no weapons, no motorcycles or cars, no knives, blueprints — nothing. It was completely empty. The lights were turned off. He walked to the door that wasn't closed all the way, and opened it farther to let all the light from outside seep in.

That's when he saw him. Jason, his son, was curled up in the far corner with his back towards him. His white shirt was stained with dirt and blood. There some holes, burned by the embers falling down the sky. Bruce's frown deepened. He never cleaned up, and from the looks of it, had never addressed his wounds.

The dark protector of Gotham walked towards the frail-looking body.

He froze.

Blood. There was blood everywhere.

—-

_Jason stared at the burning end of the cigarette, watched as the fire crawled up further and further, crumbling the thin paper in it's wake. He took in a deep breath and stared up at the sky. Tears welled up in his eyes and he let out a shaky breath._

_He stared at the cigarette again, and threw it onto the concrete, not bothering to put it out with the heel of his boot. He turned the steel knob and thrust open the heavy door. Darkness._

_Just what he wanted._

_Jason walks to the far corner of the warehouse and leans against the wall. He stares at nothing, through the darkness, as he fishes for his pocket knife._

_Memories flood his mind as he slips out the knife, tracing his fingers along the jagged edges. He's breathing uneven now, and its all he can hear besides chilling laughter and the sound of his own heart thumping against his rib cage. He closes his eyes and swallows down a broken sob._

_'Jason, get on out here or I'm going on patrol without you!'_

_Red. Green. Yellow._

_'How does it feel?'_

_Amused smiles. Hot chocolate. Freshly baked cookies._

_'This is the _best_ day of my life!'_

_He gets dizzy._

_Jason collapses to the ground. His eyes start to lose whatever light was left in them. He's breathing less and less and it gets colder and colder._

_Warm tears burn across his pale cheeks._

_He whispers to himself, using all the strength he has left to let out one big breath._

_"You happy now?"_

—-

Bruce falls to his knees, blood staining his pants and coat.

"Jason…"

* * *

_(Oh, please don't drop me home_

_Because it's not my home, it's their_

_Home, and I'm welcome no more)_


End file.
